Peace, Love, and Lutefisk: Adventures i Norge

It's been a crazy weekend. My friend Emily Dupraz, who I spent countless hours with throughout high school in school, at debate tournaments, and out on the town, lost her mother on Thursday after a long battle with breast cancer. I didn't realize how deeply it would affect me. It has brought up a lot of questions and emotions that were unexpected.

At first, I felt guilty because the tragic event brought together people that I had not seen in years, and I was happy about that. My good friend Emily Weninger flew back from Washington, DC and brought along Alison Noyes who also debated and went to BHS with me. It was crazy though because she left Brookings after our sophomore year of high school, and I don't think that I've seen her since. So, I've been able to spend a lot of time with them which has been fun, albeit in awkward circumstances. It's been especially great to find out that three random people from this small town of Brookings can all be on the same life plan, more or less. Interested in politics, big issues, changing the world, and seeing the world. It's pretty amazing to think that Brookings could produce so many interesting people. It's so great to just know people like Emily, Emily, and Alison among countless other that continue to inspire and still be there when it really matters.

The whole event has also brought up thoughts and questions about home and identity. To explain this I first have to explain the past days' events. Emily's dad was a farmer, and they lived out of town in a farmhouse in what I would consider a very traditional, rural South Dakota way. Strong people who work hard and care for others. At the wake, this persona was evident. A large portion of the people were fellow farmers wearing Wrangler jeans, tucked in plaid shirts, belt buckles, big shoulders, strong hands, and little metal attachments to their wallets so they wouldn't slip too far into their Wranglers. Emily's dad was wearing the same tie that he was wearing in her graduation photo and her brother who now farms with her dad, was very stoic, quiet, and just embodied a good, honest, hard-working description.

The funeral was similar with the same traditional South Dakotans filling the pews and comforting with a heavy tap on the shoulder. The funeral service had a country singer who did Will Roger-esque versions of "How Great Thou Art" and "I'll Fly Away." His simple, almost cheerful, speak-singing with slight slide guitar and powerful words translated a message that everyone in the congregation could understand. The pall bears were all burly, stoic, farmer with an outdoor color and wrinkles from years of honest work. They were uncomfortable in their old suit coats and ties and determined not to let their emotions get the better of them, even at this, the most emotional of times.

We headed to the interment, my first, and we sang the "Doxology" just like my Grandpa always does before meals, and as it started to rain, the pastor helped to fit everyone under the small tent. The burly pall bearers stood in the rain. In their uncomfortable suits and their hard faces, they seemed to let the rain do the crying for them. With their arms crossed looking over the interment as a man over looking a field, they watch patiently, stubbornly refusing to allow a little rain interrupt their introverted contemplations. I looked around the cemetery and to the horizon and saw farms, fields, sky, and space. This is South Dakota. The suits, the men, the rain, the fields, the strength, the Doxology, the tragedy. This is all a part of my home, my heritage, and my identity. Even though I feel removed from these aspects of South Dakota, it is in me. I could picture each of the men as my Grandpa and could relate to the stubbornness and determination of these people. 30 years ago my Grandma died, also from breast cancer. At that interment, it felt like Emily's dad was my Grandpa and Emily was my mom. The cemetery, the landscape, and the people could have just as easily been at the Bethany Lutheran Cemetery in Hurley, South Dakota as at the First Lutheran Cemetery in Brookings, South Dakota.

The frustrating part is knowing what to do with these feelings. How do I take my South Dakota identity with me into the world? Can I actually be in a different location, a different culture, and make a home? Some how, these scenes that would be foreign and perhaps laughed at by other people seem natural too me. Or rather, I can relate because I did not grow up as a traditional South Dakotan, but rather as a once removed South Dakotan. I have always experienced the "traditional" South Dakota life with visits to my Uncle's farm and my Grandpa's country church and certain aspects surround me like the landscape, the singing, and the hot dish, but really it seems that I just often visit this South Dakota culture and then return to my more culturally neutral upbringing. I am proud of my heritage, my family, my place, but I feel like I can never truly be a part of it. Yet I don't know if I can leave it either. I love the world, I love exploring, but it seems that real life, both the tragedies and comedies, are here. I know I am romanticizing, but this whole weekend has shook me and reminded me who I am and where I am from. I just don't know what to do with it.

Finally, I am also just plain sad. I see Emily and start to cry. I want to feel her numbness and her sadness in order to help her lift the burden, but I know that it is useless. I will be able to go on with my life, more aware of the blessing around me, but on the whole probably forgetful of this whole weekend eventually. Emily, on the other hand, will not forget. I just hope and pray that I can somehow bring consolation, happiness, or even momentary distraction to her. I don't know how to be a good friend, so I'm just trying to be here. And although I am not very tactful, even stupidly asking her "How are you?" on the phone when we first talked, I want her to know that I'm here. I guess that's the stoic, honest, South Dakota thing to do.